


only you know the way that i break

by BlackBat09



Series: why don’t you run from me? [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Rape Aftermath, Self-Hatred, Sexism, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBat09/pseuds/BlackBat09
Summary: Everything about their lives seems to move at breakneck pace, but always in the wrong direction.





	only you know the way that i break

**Author's Note:**

> so basically.
> 
> i like beating up Jason and i have no other reason for this, tbfh.
> 
> actually i like introspection and worldbuilding in omegaverse fics, as well as calling DC out for whatever the fuck Red Hood: Lost Days and Jay/Talia was.
> 
> title from Idontwannabeyouanymore by Billie Eilish

Robin smells the same as he always has: that is, he doesn’t, still drenched to the bone in scent blockers and choked by suppressants to keep him anonymous, stripped of his individuality and recreated in the image of someone else. It makes for an eerie fight, two shadows in bright colors beating the hell out of each other without a trace left behind except destruction.

It doesn’t change what Jason knows about the baby Boy Wonder, though, or that Tim probably knows Jason’s status, too, the little stalker.

He’s an alpha. A pillar to support the Batman and his pack. Leader of his own team before he joined the Titans. Disciplined. Intelligent. Highly capable in a group or solo.

He’s everything Jason wasn’t, and don’t think he doesn’t notice. Timmy’s the real golden child, greater than Jason and Dick combined, giving up a real fucking life for the stupid fucking mission, just like Bruce.

Jason purrs in satisfaction when he makes him bleed, and Tim startles, the confused bunch of his brows pulling at his mask, giving Jason the perfect opportunity to knock him out.

Can’t be perfect in every way, Jason supposes.

And as he writes his name in Tim’s blood on the wall, smears it into the skin of his palms and fills his lungs with the coppery scent, he’s sure that this is how he wants to do things.

Nothing ever changes unless alpha blood gets spilled, so Jason’s going to fucking swim in it.

* * *

“You’re an idiot.”

Black Mask slowly turns his head to look at Slade, probably amazed at the blunt statement, though Slade can’t begin to guess the man’s facial expressions. He can, however, smell how angry Mask is getting, the acrid smell of acetone making Slade’s nose twitch.

“The fuck did you say to me?”

The skull mask isn’t nearly as intimidating as Sionis wants to believe it is, Slade can tell him that. “You think Red Hood’s an alpha. And you’re an idiot and a sexist for it,” he repeats, crossing his arms over his chest and settling his shoulder against the wall. It’s unlikely Slade will get Mask to change his ways, or get him any closer to finding or beating Hood, but he figures he should let the man know he’s dead wrong and a moron, if only for his own satisfaction.

“And what makes you think it’s a beta, or some _broad_ , tearing down my organization?” Mask sneers. God help him, Slade wants to kill Sionis and get this over with.

“If he were alpha, he’d be making your people submit to him and stockpiling your inventory, trying to prove himself a better leader by dominating your empire. He’s not doing that.” There’s more to it, the way Hood hides his status, doesn’t scent-mark his territory or his people, but Roman doesn’t care about evidence, blinded by sexism and idiocy, just like Slade said.

“He knows he can’t do what I do, so he’s playing dirty. It don’t mean anything about his status.” Mask turns his back, a silent dismissal and an insult, as though Slade’s not a threat, and he imagines, for a brief moment, how it would be to feel Mask’s neck snap in his hands, so easy and satisfying that Slade nearly acts on it.

But then Sionis would go out the way he expects to, at the hands of an alpha, and Slade won’t give him the satisfaction. Honestly, the job comes second to the look on Mask’s face when he gets gutted by an omega.

Because this, Slade is sure, is an omega’s war. Hood doesn’t want to climb to the top, and have to keep fighting back competition to continuously prove his worth. He wants to burn the whole damn thing to the ground, everything but what’s his, and be damn sure no one can threaten his pack again, and, honestly?

Slade’s looking forward to seeing it play out.

* * *

Reasonably, Jason knows he doesn’t have to do this. He’s the boss, he could grab a few months’ supply of heat suppressants off the top when they come in and tell everyone to mind their own damn business when he does, but he won’t. It’s his place to provide, not take advantage, and, besides, buying at the ground level gives him a chance to make sure nothing’s getting diluted or fucked with on the way down the ranks.

So Jason dresses down, washes off his scent blockers and takes a trip through the Bowery, cash in his pocket, to meet one of his own dealers for his suppressants. He knows what to expect, what he smells like, what he looks like, an unmarked omega with an appealing figure, his deep scowl radiating challenge to the idiot alphas on the streets. Someone mutters that Jason has a Bruce Wayne body and he nearly snaps at the comparison to Gotham’s favorite omega, takes a moment to breathe before he ends up losing his head, launching across the street, and tearing their throat out with his teeth for _daring_ to even look at him like that-

But the growl he fights down would only spur them on, invite them to keep testing, keep _proving themselves_ , so Jason simply flashes the gun at his hip and moves on, hearing people go back to their own business behind him.

He’s not interested in being courted, or any kind of sex, a lesson his dealer had learned with the first and only black eye Jason gave him. Now he greets Jason like anyone else before passing over the suppressants that keep Jason steady and safe, as long as he takes them like clockwork, as long as they’re the right dose, as long as he doesn’t let himself be vulnerable. The thought of slipping up and letting someone past his walls again makes bile lick up the back of Jason’s throat every time, and he pushes it down to focus on his city.

Gotham needs the Red Hood, faceless, scentless, sexless, to take care of her without distraction.

Jason won’t let anyone keep him from protecting his pack.

* * *

Mask’s little omega problem itches at the back of Slade’s mind, pushes to the forefront as he sits in his hotel room and lets himself unwind. It reminds him of Jason, so bright, so strong, so perfect, and how it’s been half a year since Slade fucked him and the thought still makes his canines ache.

They’d spent a good four days together, the kid’s heat-slick pussy milking Slade’s knot for all he was worth, and then Slade had woken up to three hundred thousand dollars in bed next to him instead of a warm body and found himself on unsteady footing once again thanks to Jason. He had no illusions the pup would stay forever, of course, but he’d found himself looking forward to further training, working together and fooling around, or at least discussing a way they could get in contact again, meet up every now and again the way Slade does with Talia.

The severity in her tone when he asks about Jason, lying in the sheets after their next session, lodges ice in his chest.

“He isn’t yours to ask after, Slade.”

He sits up, looks down to meet her hard eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin, and answers softly, measured. “He was my student, Talia. I can ask.” Slade’s gaze is equally hard. “And he doesn’t _belong_ to you.”

It only gets a rich laugh, “He was mine before yours, Deathstroke, and after. I’m afraid I have greater claim.”

“After?” Talia’s smile makes his spine stiffen.

“Did you not know? He came to me after your training, poor thing, smelling of heat and distress and _you_.” She says it like an accusation, even though Slade _knows_ Jason consented, and his stomach turns, a growl building in his chest.

“What did you _do_ to him.”

“Gave him comfort,” she says, feigning offense as though he can’t tell that she’s lying through those smeared red lips. “I’m all the pack he knows now.”

He has her by the throat before he can stop himself, slamming her into the plush hotel headboard, snarling in her face as her nails dig into his wrist, perfect mouth curled in an equally vicious snarl. “Did he _ask_ for your comfort, Talia?”

“He didn’t refuse it,” she answers, so self-assured, self-righteous, that Slade has to let her go, dress himself and leave her there.

If he stuck around to answer, he’d kill her.

* * *

Jason blames himself for going to Talia.

He was emotional, and vulnerable, riding out the last day of his heat, the hormones and the ache in his gut and the tightness in his chest. Staying with Slade had been weeks of company, days of contact, and the thought of being alone had made Jason want to break down and sob, so he did the only thing he could think of.

He went to Talia, like an idiot.

For some reason, he’d thought she was safe, but she’s an assassin, an al Ghul, and Jason should have known better than to run into her arms with his chest cracked open and expect her not to reach inside and toy with him.

It had helped, at first, her hands on him, another omega to understand and keep him steady as he scrubbed away sweat and slick and shame, so much shame, not for the sex but for letting Slade get so close, for wanting to let an _alpha_ in.

Talia had kissed his forehead, promising him that he didn’t need to feel shame, not here, not with her.

He remembers her touch as she covered Slade’s sunlight-and-metal scent with her own, spice-and-floral, until Jason was choking on the smell of lilies, dizzy with pheromones as Talia ignored his growls and rubbed her scent against his throat.

He remembers her nails digging into those same scent glands on his neck, the biological trigger making his muscles lax and his mind docile despite how he wanted her to stop touching him.

He remembers her words, most of all, everything she whispered to him as her other hand slid between his thighs, calling him beautiful, strong and passionate and exquisite.

“You are so like your father, beloved little one. So, so much like him.”

The words still make him sick months later.

* * *

Slade’s not on the job, technically, when he catches a whiff of something familiar, that curl of cherry smoke that haunts him sometimes. He’s in Hood’s territory, he knows, stops and looks around to try and find where it came from, if it really was him-

But it gets lost just as quick, swallowed by the other people’s scents and Gotham’s smog, and Slade can’t help the way he grits his teeth and sets his shoulders, shoving his way through the crowd with no remorse.

Jason watches Slade’s retreating back, heat suppressants curled in his fist, and his chest aches.

The Red Hood drops in on Deathstroke that night and tells him to get out of Gotham, and all Slade can think is that he’d probably hit on him, 6’1 and built like a brick house, if he hadn’t scented Jason earlier in the day.

“Mask ain’t the right horse to bet on.”

Deathstroke crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you suggesting I back you, instead?”

Hood growls, the sound modulated but no less clear. “I’m not puttin’ myself in anyone’s debt. Especially not _yours_.”

“That sounds personal, Hood,” the mercenary hums. “What’d I ever do to you?”

“You offered to help Mask kill me,” is the flat reply.

Slade can’t really deny that one, so he doesn’t, shrugging and starting to pace, circling Hood and looking him over, the aggression in his stance, the tension in his muscles.

Jason focuses on controlling his responses, not wanting to risk his anger flaring past the confines of his scent blockers.

“You really think you can bring Sionis down alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Jason answers, and it’s technically true: Talia has his back with Kord Industries since buying them out from under Bruce. But it’s also Talia, and, well, yes, Jason is absolutely alone, but it’s none of Slade’s fucking business.

“You look it. None of your people know who you are, where to find you if they need you, hell- it’s _Gotham_ , and nobody can pin down your gimmick besides _maybe_ leather,” Slade cracks, smirking behind his mask when Hood growls again. “No one knows what you want, kid. You don’t do business like anyone else in town.”

Jason flicks his studs against his teeth irritably, a burst of static coming across his helmet mic as Slade continues to stare him down. “Maybe it ain’t about doin’ business.”

“I believe it. You’re not treating Sionis like competition. You treat him like a threat to your pack.”

It’s silent between them, tense, as Jason weighs the implications.

“You tell Mask all this?”

“I told him his sexism’s gonna bite him in the ass.”

Hood’s scent flares, anger over bitter blockers, and, _oh_ , Slade feels stupid. He should have known: who else would’ve had the backbone to come tell him to fuck off to his face?

“If he starts interfering with heat suppressants, on my turf or his own, because of your little hint, I’ll kill you myself,” Hood rumbles, and Slade’s answer is soft, softer than he means it to be.

“I believe you, Jason.”

Jason’s stomach bottoms out. He’d been so fucking careful, he’d been so in control, if Slade- no, _Deathstroke_ , if he’d just stayed away, Jason would’ve been _fine_ -

“What?” It’s probably unconvincing, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I said I believe you, Jason,” Slade repeats, practically gentle now, but Hood still tenses.

“Take your Society circus outta Gotham. We got enough of our own clowns,” he spits, turning on his heel to leave, but Slade won’t let him go like this again, crosses the space between them to grab his wrist and hold him fast.

“Jason, wait.”

Slade has his dominant hand in his grip, but Jason has no issue pulling a knife from his belt with his right, twisting his left in Slade’s grip to try and pull it free, but the merc doesn’t let go, and Jason’s chest goes tight as he lashes out, frantic. It’s sloppy, easy for Slade to catch, and he wrenches it from Jason’s grip even as it slices through his glove and his palm, dragging Jason even closer to gather both wrists in one hand and hold him.

Part of Jason wants to give in, badly. Something in him still reacts to Slade the way it did six months ago, when it was safe to be open with him, when Slade was strong and powerful and intelligent and had passed every test, even the ones Jason didn’t know he was setting. When Jason had been able to look at Slade, lying in bed beside him, and see himself bonded to the alpha, see Slade as his mate.

The rest of Jason is struggling, screaming, growling fiercely in his chest as he tries to knee Slade in the balls or pull out of his grip, operating on pure adrenaline.

Slade responds instinctively, reaching up to clap his bleeding hand against the back of Jason’s neck and dig his fingertips into the scent glands on his throat, massaging them firmly as he kicks up a rusty purr, trying in a way he hasn’t in years to soothe someone, so he and his omega can just fucking _talk_.

It works; Jason goes lax in Slade’s arms, his struggling stops, but his scent explodes in distress, sour, rotted with fear and panic, so potent that Slade’s grip goes slack. Even modulated by his helmet, the distressed whine Jason lets out is clear, and Slade tries to croon a concerned sound, but it’s too late.

The moment Slade lets up, Jason jerks in his grip and slams his forehead into Slade’s nose, hearing it crunch under his helmet as he yanks his hands free. His palm cracks into the underside of Slade’s jaw, slamming it up into his skull so hard his ears ring before Jason bolts, leaving Slade behind.

Slade’s instincts tell him to give chase, to run his omega down and try to understand what’s _wrong_ , but instead he takes a seat, peels up his mask and sets his nose straight with a grunt. It’s clear instincts aren’t the way to handle Jason, not after that catastrophe, and it reminds him of the pup’s conditions when they’d fucked all those months ago, his aching jaw clenching at what could’ve been done to make Jason afraid to present or let Slade near his throat.

What Slade‘s sure of is that it’s going to be a process to get Jason comfortable with him like he once was, and that killing anyone who’s ever set a hand on the boy is an integral step.

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh comments are life and love, find me at blackbat16 to yell at me abt being mean!


End file.
